lundi 19 octobre 2009


There are happy, slaphappy and unhappy poets.
The quality of a poet is not strained
But most poets that mean something to me
Are or were, as it happens, rather hapless chaps.
At least they ended up in a calamitous way.
Should I be that insolently happy as a poet
That only the unhappy tell me news
Or that bitterly unhappy myself
That only them strike a chord with me?

Besides, I quite often got something to tell
Myself. Am I thus part of those unhappy ones?
I don’t want to sound lachrymose
But there might be some indication.
On the other hand, it is a sign for most
Happy-go-lucky in-the-nick-of-time felicity
When you ponder about such things
While the truly unlucky sort, poetically
Speaking, already swoop down a facade.

The question whether a poet is happy or not
If posed in a poem, is a happy question.
It makes a poet look to the window
Where the hapless start dropping by. Poets too; but
Our wings aren’t big enough. May flail or flutter:
Don’t gain enough lift even for level flight
Let alone climbing. I’ll check the remains. As I said
Calamitous endings do interest me. I am definitely
A happy, a slaphappy, a most fortunate man.

October 17, 2009, Ceteri egoque, 11

Aucun commentaire: